Date: Sun, 8 Apr 2001 00:01:05 EDT
From: Ivrys88@aol.com
Subject: My Lover My Athlete (Revised)
MY LOVER, MY ATHLETE by K. Nitsua.
Revised version copyright 2001 by the author.
It's late afternoon. The corridors of the campus swimming center are
quiet. The crowds, the reporters, all of the media have finally left. My
office is in a part of the building they don't get to see. I'm waiting
there now, behind my desk. Around me, team photos and shelves of trophies
line the walls. There will be another trophy added after today. My team has
won the conference championship, as they were favored to and as I knew they
would.
I wore a suit for the meet and for the press conference afterward, but I
left early and changed back into my usual practice uniform, white polo
shirt, coach's shorts with jockstrap underneath, and sneakers. They didn't
really want to talk to me anyway. They wanted to ask my star swimmer about
the conference record he set in the hundred free. They wanted to grill him
about Olympic possibilities. I'm sure my athlete handled it fine. He's
polite, modest, respectful of his elders, a good kid. He was brought up
well by his parents and I've made sure he's stayed that way.
He's coming to see me for a private post-meet conference, which we never
skip. The sports columnist in the local paper has talked in print about the
"special rapport" we have. It's impossible to keep my feelings about him
entirely hidden. The other team members have been surprisingly supportive
of my athlete despite his rising star, partly because I stress teamwork and
partly because he's a genuinely likable guy. He doesn't have an enemy in
the world. He understands, though, that some things have to be kept
discreet.
There have been others whom I've taken aside and worked with intensively,
others who have become special to me. But there's never been anyone quite
like my athlete. As I think of him my breath quickens and my heart beats
faster. I look at the clock on the wall. I know he'll be here at the time I
gave him. He obeys me without fail. Yet, a irrational fear grips me that he
might not come, that I'll be left waiting here, bereft, alone...
There's a soft knock at the door. "Come in," I say, trying to keep audible
relief out of my voice.
The door opens. Even now, the first sight of him after any absence is
overwhelming. He walks forward and stops in front of my desk, tall and
poised. His blue and white nylon warms emphasize the long limbs that allow
him to knife through the water so cleanly. Dark blond hair, still damp, is
slicked back against his head. Blue eyes are set in a pleasant, open
face. He brims with the virility of a twenty-year-old swimmer about to
break into the world class.
Right now, his face is anxious. "You wanted to see me, Coach?"
I nod, my expression serious. This is part of the ritual. "Let's talk about
your race, son."
He smiles, forgetting himself for a moment, saying, "It was great, wasn't
it? They loved me--"
My voice crackles as I interrupt him. "I'm not interested in THEY. I want
to know what YOU thought of your race, son. Your record-setting race," I
add, with heavy sarcasm.
He nods, abashed, steeling himself for the litany of self-criticism he
knows he must give. He begins to speak softly.
"Well, my start wasn't the greatest. Bit slow coming off the blocks."
He waits, then continues more reluctantly.
"I went out too fast. Trying to compensate. Might have faded in the last
twenty-five, gotten caught."
I incline my head in a slight nod, indicating my agreement with his
analysis.
"But you didn't. You held off the field. Do you know why?"
He says, unwillingly, "It... must have been the new training program."
Not letting him off the hook, I say, "Yes. The one you've been resisting,
dragging your feet on all season. Are you saying that it worked?"
He bows his head. His voice is barely audible. "Yes."
Silence hangs between us. At last he says, hesitantly, "Coach--"
He is beginning to shift his body weight slightly from side to side. The
equipment must really be bothering him after the long day.
"What is it, son?"
He tries to keep the pleading out of his voice, without success. "Please,
may I remove the equipment now, sir?"
"You cannot remove it," I correct him, my voice steely. "Only I can do
that."
"Yes, sir." The expression on his face is abject. "Please...may I have
the...the equipment removed now?"
I torment him a little. "I don't know. I was thinking you might sleep with
it tonight."
"I...I don't think I can, sir."
I raise my eyebrows mockingly. "Not man enough, eh?"
His body is swaying, his discomfort visible. He drops his head and shakes
it, ashamed.
I sigh. "All right. You know what to do."
Trying not to appear too eager, he pulls the zipper down on his warmup
jacket, removes it and lets it drop to the floor. His skin is
pale--swimmers, ironically, don't get much sun during the competitive
season. His arms, hanging from wide shoulders, are formidable, the biceps
bulging even when relaxed, the forearms roped with sinew and muscle. Even
for a competitive swimmer his chest and abdomen are beautiful. The hairless
pectorals are two symmetrical discs of flesh, topped with large, dark, and
I know, very sensitive nipples. From the cleavage between them drops
another cleft down to his navel. Horizontal ridges of muscle radiate out to
either side.
He undoes the drawstring on his nylon pants and with swift motions of his
legs gets them off. He is still wearing the dark blue racing trunks
underneath, and his powerful thighs strain against the tight leg
openings. The Speedos hug his slim hips. There is a noticeable bulge in
front and a faint stain on the otherwise dry fabric. The equipment has had
the desired effect.
Coming from behind the desk, I walk up very close to him and look into his
eyes. "Let me." I hook my thumbs under the waist of his trunks and slowly
draw them down his thighs. His cock springs free. It is surrounded by dark
blond pubic hair--the only body hair I've let him keep today. Long and
circumcised, it juts out above his smooth ball sack.
I take a long look at what belongs to me and me alone, then shift my gaze
to his face again. He is blushing, still embarrassed when I scrutinize his
anatomy this way. His lips are unusually full and sensuous for a man. I
want to kiss them, but not just yet. I kneel and lift each of his feet in
turn, making him step out of the trunks.
Naked, he turns and walks stiffly away from me. He bends forward at the
waist, bracing his arms against the nearby wall, head down. I move behind
him and lean forward until I can feel the heat from his body. I reach
around and grasp his cock, stroking it to full erection. With my other hand
I probe the crack between his cheeks. Even here the skin is smooth and
hairless--I shaved it myself this morning. I find his asshole and the small
loop of nylon cord that pokes out of it. I hook my index finger through the
string.
I grasp his cock and begin stroking him again, simultaneously beginning to
pull on the loop at the end of the string, slowly but relentlessly. A low
groan rises from his throat, turning into a cry as a round, hard object is
suddenly ejected from his hole.
I continue relentlessly despite his pained protests, keeping a firm grip
both on the string and his cock. Globe after glistening black globe emerges
from his anus. Finally the last ball comes out. His head sags and his body
heaves with harsh gasps. I imagine the sensations he must be feeling as his
bowels adjust to the sudden emptiness. I'm holding a string of five
pleasure beads, each an inch and three-quarters in diameter. He swam his
race and set the record with hard rubber thrust more than eight inches up
his ass--punishment for having resisted my coaching.
"Get up and turn around."
He obeys. I shove the balls, slick with his secretions, at him.
"Go in the bathroom and clean these up in the sink. Take care of yourself
while you're at it. Oh, and get a towel and wipe up the mess here."
"Yes, Coach."
He comes back with the towel and cleans the floor, then disappears
again. He is in the bathroom a long time.
I stand, waiting for him. He's worn the balls at my command quite a few
times now, but never for this long. I remember his shocked dismay when I
showed him the string this morning, his useless pleas, his grunts and moans
as I inserted them one by one, slowly and lovingly. My cock presses against
the front of my shorts.
I'll never tell him this, but I'm immensely relieved that he won. I admit I
let my need to teach him a lesson get in the way of what was best for my
athlete. Compelling him to wear the equipment today might have affected his
performance. Instead, his brilliant victory has justified both the training
and the punishment.
I hear the toilet flush and water running. At last the door opens and he
emerges, walking gingerly toward me, the string of balls, clean and dry, in
one hand. He pauses before me, eyes downcast, and holds them out. I take
them from his hand.
"Good."
He waits for further instructions.
"Up on the table, son."
He casts a quick glance upward and his face brightens, though he knows
better than to let himself smile. He knows now that I've given him at least
a passing grade on his performance today. He might also be hoping that the
rubdown I'm about to give him will end the way it sometimes does. I
suppress a smile. I haven't quite made up my mind whether or not to give
that to him.
Obediently he mounts the table and lies on his stomach, reaching underneath
himself. He adjusts his cock so that it is pointing downward, the head
poking out under his balls and accessible between his legs.
Looking at him lying there, prone on the massage table, arms passively at
his sides, I wonder which side of him is more beautiful. Does it seem
absurd, that I might prefer the rear view to the front? Yet the back of his
body is perfect. The triceps swell on his upper arms. His broad shoulders
and his back, corded with muscle, taper down in a classic V-shape to his
narrow waist and hips, below which his pale buttocks rise in gently
swelling globes. Long, sturdy legs and large, flexible feet complete the
picture.
I move to the massage table. I take a look at the entire picture before I
lay my hands on him. I pass my fingertips lightly over his entire body,
beginning with the back of the neck, moving down his arms and back up, down
his back, across the buttocks and down his legs, ending at his
feet. Despite his efforts not to react, I feel him shiver, and hear him
draw in his breath as I pass over the sensitive regions near the cleft
between his cheeks, then just above the balls gathered between his
legs. Breaking contact momentarily, I pick up the jar of massage cream on
the counter nearby, take a handful and go to work.
As I knead his muscles, occasionally taking some more cream, his breathing
deepens and he seems to melt closer to the surface of the table. My trained
hands press against the knots I find in his back, working them out. I want
to get his body as relaxed and loose as possible after the hard race
today. I won't tell him this, of course, but he deserves no less.
After finishing on his upper body, I move down and begin anew from his feet
up. I sit on the table and cradle each of his legs against my body while I
work his feet, ankles and calves. I put his legs down and next concentrate
my attentions on his thighs and butt. I begin gently to arouse him again,
first getting very close to, then actually brushing the bottom of his ball
sac as I knead his strong, thick thigh muscles. I make sure his balls and
the head of his dick are coated with massage cream, keeping the strokes
just light and short enough to send shocks of pleasure through him. He
shifts his body as his cock swells underneath him. He would love to do
something to relieve the pressure of his erection pointed the wrong way,
but he knows he can't.
Then, on to my favorite part. I massage his gluteal muscles, slowly and
carefully, using all of the different strokes at my disposal. I finish by
grasping his cheeks with both my hands, thumbs pointed inward, separating
them as I move upward, applying pressure, exposing the small rosebud of his
asshole in the shaved crack. I see the pucker twitch a bit, a sign of his
continued arousal. I grasp his calves, bending both his legs upward and
pushing them apart, stretching his front thigh muscles. His balls and the
engorged, purple head of his trapped cock come into tantalizing view. A
small wet spot is forming on the table underneath him. Letting go of one
leg, I reach under his body and grab the slick head. He grunts. I stroke
him, stopping before he goes over the edge. I hear another faint sound, a
small moan of frustration and desire.
I lay a hand on his back. "Why don't you turn over, son." He obeys with
alacrity, his erect cock springing up, released from its prison. As he
settles on his back, looking at me, his eyes questioning, I give him the
answer he seeks. "Ready for the cuffs?"
He draws in his breath sharply. "Yes, please...coach."
"Good boy." I go to a drawer underneath the counter and take out two
buckled straps of leather. Each has a length of stainless steel chain about
two feet long attached, ending in a spring clip. As I bring them over he
holds both his arms up and out, the hands relaxed and passive. I fasten the
leather straps around each of his wrists and tighten the
buckles. Positioning myself behind him, I take his arms and draw them back
by the chains, toward the head of the table where two eyelets are screwed
into the wood. I quickly fasten the spring clips to them. His arms are now
pinioned on either side of his head, unable to protect him. The short
chains don't allow him either to extend them fully or lower his elbows to
the table--the discomfort is deliberate, of course.
I look at my athlete lying naked on his back, arms chained, eyes closed. My
cock takes another leap in my shorts. I'm not going to be able to restrain
myself much longer. Still, I'm going to finish the massage. His arms are
bent, so that I can work easily on his bulging biceps. I rub the fingers
and palms of both of his useless hands.
I find the edge of each of his superbly shaped pectorals and gradually work
around and inward to his nipples. I brush each of them lightly , drawing
more gasps--they are fully erect. An idea enters my head. Shall I subject
him to an extra cruelty tonight? Yes, I decide, it's a special occasion.
Standing by his side, alternating hands, I gently begin to rub the rippled
rows of muscle on his abdomen. His cock, which had softened slightly,
springs back to full erection, begging to be released. His breathing
quickens as his mouth opens. His eyes seek mine again.
I pull my shirt up and over my head, tossing it to the floor. His eyes drop
to my hairy chest and stomach. He licks his dry lips.
I unbutton the front of my shorts and let them drop. Now I am nude except
for my jockstrap, the pouch damp and full. I pick up the nearby jar with my
free hand.
He does not take his eyes off me for an instant as I slowly move to the
foot of the massage table to which he is shackled. Bending down and putting
the jar on the floor for the moment, I straighten, reach forward, grasp his
hips and pull him roughly toward me. His arms, still cuffed, fly up over
his head as his butt reaches the lower edge of the table. He quickly raises
his legs to avoid hitting me.
Again, I pause to look at my captive, imprisoned arms stretched above his
head, legs in the air, hard leaking cock pointing upward on his muscled
abdomen. Bending down quickly once more, I grab a handful of cream. As I
rise, I grasp his calves and put them on my shoulders, reaching between his
legs into the cleft between his butt cheeks. I quickly find the hole and
push a greased finger into it. His canal is still stretched and ready from
the burden he has carried up there all day. I nudge his prostate and watch
his eyes dance with pleasure. I withdraw, step back and, with the same
hand, pull down the waistband of my jockstrap. Out of the corner of my eye
I can see him raise his head to look at my thick, uncircumcised cock,
poking from my dark pubic bush. The waistband presses my balls upward and
outward. I peel back my foreskin before I apply the cream to both head and
shaft.
I skin the jockstrap down my legs and step out of it. We're both naked,
captor and captive ready to join in the embrace of conquest. There's just
one other thing. I walk to the desk and open the drawer. I rummage inside
and find the alligator clamps, connected by a short chain. His eyes widen
as he catches sight of what I am holding. Returning to the table, I bend
over him and fasten one clamp to his left nipple, turning the screw,
hearing him hiss with pain. I screw the other clamp to his right nipple in
the same fashion, tightening this one until a wail of anguish issues from
his throat. I watch, impassive, as he writhes and twists, his face
contorted.
I bend down again and tell him, "If you can't take it, I'll remove
them. Just say the word." A long pause, broken only by his ragged
breathing. At last, he slowly shakes his head from side to side. I nod
approvingly. "Good."
I rise and quickly move into position, placing my cock against his asshole
and pushing my pelvis forward, breaking through and sliding in. He yells
again, momentarily distracted by this new pain. He's used to the
penetration, though, and the invasion will quickly become pleasurable. I go
in deeper until my balls are pressed against his cheeks, steely hard in his
bent position. I look into his eyes, darkened by the pain and pleasure I am
simultaneously inflicting on him. I reach around his legs, resting on my
shoulders, toward his chest. He cries out in terror, but instead of
tightening the clamps as he had feared, I flick them gently, rapidly, back
and forth. He gasps and moans, his head thrashing, driven close to insanity
by the simultaneous knifing pain and tickles of pleasure from his nipples
coursing through his body. His hands clench and unclench in their
restraints.
Leaving the clamps for the moment, I stand upright and withdraw slowly,
looking down, watching as my shaft emerges from his hole. I pull back until
I see the head of my cock start to emerge, then shove it forward again into
him in one massive thrust. My athlete cries out again as my body slams into
his. Holding his legs relentlessly apart, I repeat the motion, over and
over, gradually increasing in speed.
His head is raised off of the table, the pain from the clamps momentarily
forgotten as he watches the assault intently. He can see my stomach muscles
working as I fuck him. He'd be masturbating his own unsatisfied cock right
now if it weren't for the restraints. You'll get your release, son--all in
good time.
After a while I feel the fire build up in me and I know I'm going to have
to finish this, much as I'd like it to continue. I slow my motions, then
let myself be still inside him for a moment. Then, I withdraw my cock and
push on his thighs. He obeys, hiking his body back on the table, bending
his elbows, until his head is at the edge and there's enough room for me to
climb on.
I mount the table, kneeling and ranging my body above his. Quickly I slide
again into him and stretch full length on top, bending him almost double,
his knees against his chest. I slip my right hand under his thigh and take
hold of his cock, completely coated now with his slick precum.
Simultaneously I resume thrusting and stroking his cock, watching his face
intently as I take him to climax. His expression is frantic as the
sensations flood his body--the friction of my ramming cock in the tender
flesh of his hole, the deep, welling warmth from his prostate; the familiar
pleasure of his cock being jacked; and the continued burning pain from his
tortured nipples. He can't hold out for long. Short whimpers begin to
emerge from his throat, becoming louder, turning into wordless cries,
finally merging into one keening wail of combined agony and triumph. His
cock comes to life, expelling hard spurts of warm, sticky fluid over my
hand and onto his heaving chest and stomach.
I release his cock and quickly grab his face, smearing the handful of spunk
onto his eyes, nose, cheeks and lips. His tongue licks his seed from my
palm. Seeing his features covered with his cum, feeling his asshole
gripping my cock convulsively in the throes of orgasm, all this sends me
over the edge. My eyes close involuntarily and I grit my teeth, hissing,
"Fuck I'm cumming..." Then I explode in bursting release, my body slamming
down in one last involuntary thrust as I empty myself into him. I hear
hoarse shouts of triumph and realize it's my voice.
Finally I open my eyes. He is looking up at me, the convulsions passing,
his expression changing from ecstasy back to suffering. Now that he's cum,
I need to release him in other ways. I pull out of him slowly,
carefully. Still panting, I reach down and unscrew the clamps squeezing his
nipples, first the left, then the right. He shrieks as the blood rushes
back into the nubs of flesh. His eyes are suspiciously bright. In a moment
I'll break him down completely.
I reach up and undo the buckles on the leather cuffs, releasing his
arms. He sighs and lowers them to his sides, waiting. I let him wonder for
long moments what I'm going to do now. Just as the anxiety begins to mount
in his face, I lean forward and down, taking his face in my hands and
kissing him long and tenderly, tasting the cum on his lips. I release him
and smile at him for the first time.
"You swam a great race today, " I say. "You're a champion. I'm proud of
you, son."
I watch the tears well in his eyes as he hears the words of praise for
which he has hungered so long. In a moment they spill over as his face
crumbles and he begins to weep. I put my face down next to his. "Shh...it's
all right."
Abruptly his arms grip me in a fierce embrace. We lie there, glued together
by his cum, our bodies rocking as they press urgently against one another.
He is sobbing against my neck, the tears wetting my skin, wailing in total
release.
"Let it go, son. Let it all go."
His voice emerges, watery, still full of hiccuping tears. "I-I... I did it
for you, coach."
I kiss him again, my own throat tightening. I run my hands through his
hair, almost dry now.
"I did it for you."
"No," I tell him. "You did it for you, son."
I hold him as he gradually quiets down. Time slips away unnoticed.
Later, both of us showered, cleaned up and dressed in our best, we go out
for a victory dinner with his parents. His parents are quiet, pleasant,
well-mannered people. Toward the end of the evening his father raises a
wineglass in a toast.
"To you, coach," he says. "And to all that you've done for our boy." His
mother nods in agreement.
The three of them drink. I smile and say to the parents, "Thank you for
entrusting me with your son."
The mother speaks hesitantly. "I have to tell you, Coach, at the beginning,
his father and I...we wondered about the...special arrangements. Taking him
into your home, having him live with you." She brightens. "But it's worked
out beautifully, hasn't it."
I turn to my athlete. "Do you agree, son?"
He sits, grave and handsome in coat and tie. Involuntarily I draw in my
breath at the sight. He shakes his head and smiles. "Can't argue with a
conference championship. And maybe the Olympics." He looks me in the eye
and says, "These past two years have been fantastic. You've brought out the
very best in me, Coach. I couldn't have done it without you."
I nod and smile slightly in acknowledgment.
Soon afterward, we say goodbye to his parents outside the restaurant and
drive back to my home. As soon as we are inside the door, he clasps me in a
long embrace. "Thank you," he says.
"Thank _you_," I answer. We kiss. Now there is no thought of control or
submission, just the warmth of our mutual respect and affection.
Later, he lies asleep in our bed with one long arm thrown over my bare
chest. I listen with rapt wonder and joy to his quiet breathing. I can't
sleep because my heart is too full.
From the moment you walked onto my team and into my life I was determined
to possess you. I set out to make you mine in every way. I've succeeded, my
lover, my athlete. But you've had the last laugh, because now I am yours
too. I am yours.
END